


think before you let it go

by problematic_pleasures



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Open/Eat, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Underage Sex, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Nefarious Hurt/Comfort, Perceived Rejection, Pining, Slight Canon Divergence, Underage Drinking, perceived one-sided attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 00:10:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19841437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/problematic_pleasures/pseuds/problematic_pleasures
Summary: Rejected by MJ and feeling lost, Peter seeks out Quentin.





	think before you let it go

**Author's Note:**

> saw FFH on Sunday and this idea struck me yesterday at work. It's not quite what I wanted it to be but! I'm excited to share it regardless. This is slightly canon divergent in that instead of making it to the reveal of the hologram tech on the bridge, Peter bolts when he thinks MJ doesn't return his feelings. 
> 
> enjoy!

“Oh, do Night Monkey and Spider-Man use the same kind of webs, then?” MJ is reaching for her bag, shrugging it off her shoulder, but Peter’s vision is tunneling. His head is swimming. He doesn’t know how he could be so stupid to think MJ actually _liked_ him _back_ ; she was just watching him to figure out if he was Spider-Man or not. Of course. “Peter?” MJ’s voice is gentle and searching. 

“I don’t care,” he spits out. “I don’t know if they use the same webs and I don’t care.” Peter swallows around the lump in his throat and turns sharply on his heel. He shoves the ornate little tin back in his pocket, the necklace jingling against the sides, and the sound rings in his ears like gunshots. 

Even though MJ is calling out for him, he doesn’t turn back.

She shouts, _“Peter, wait!”_ He starts running, eyes slammed shut and fists clenched.

He doesn’t stop until MJ’s yelling is entirely lost into the night. He stumbles into an alleyway and fumbles for his phone. His vision is shaky as he swipes a thumb over the cracked screen and pulls up _recent calls_. 

He hits _call_ and swallows his tears. 

“I gotta say,” Quentin starts, “I’m surprised you called me. I’m surprised Fury even gave you my number.”

It had been almost surprisingly easy. Fury had been less than pleased to be woken up at an ungodly hour, even more unhappy when Peter started crying on the phone. If anything, Fury had only given him Beck’s number to get him off the damn phone.

“I didn’t...Didn’t have anyone else to call.” 

Quentin takes a step back to let Peter into his hotel room. It’s a simple room, not a suite or anything. There’s a double bed with rucked up sheets against one wall and against the other wall is a rickety dresser with a dinky television on top. 

“That can’t be true,” Quentin finally replies as he shuts the door behind them. “What about your friend from the festival?”

“Ned?” Peter laughs, bitter. “He’d care, but he’s really wrapped up in his girlfriend right now. I don’t think he’d get it.” Peter moves hesitantly, slowly around the room, until he caves and sits on the edge of the bed. 

“Well,” Quentin drawls with a teasing edge to his voice, “Since you haven’t told me what’s going on, only that you needed to see me as soon as possible, I can’t say I get it either.” 

Peter’s cheeks color bright red and he dips his head in shame. “Just. Stupid stuff.”

“If it’s upsetting you this much, it’s not stupid.” 

Warmth fills Peter at the kind words, followed almost immediately by a chill when he tries to think about MJ without immediately crying. 

The bed dips as Quentin sits beside him. His hand, when it lands on Peter’s shoulder, is careful and hot. “Take your time.” 

Peter shrugs, mostly because he can’t speak with the lump filling up his throat almost painfully. Quentin only squeezes his shoulder; it’s as though the gentle touch wrenches a dam open, breaking and splintering as words come pouring out of Peter faster than he can think. 

“I just, we saved the world, right? So I decided to, to take a chance. With that girl I like. And we went out to that bridge and it was really romantic, and I was gonna tell her how I feel, and give her this, this stupid necklace I bought.” Peter draws in a shuddering breath. He tenses for a moment when Quentin’s hand moves to his back, but the warmth of his palm against his tight spine is soothing, and slowly Peter relaxes. 

“Go on,” Quentin urges softly. 

“I was about to tell her, I’ve never done this before so it was taking a little bit, and. And. And it’s just, I thought she was watching me for the same reason I was watching her.”

“Because you liked her.”

Peter’s ears burn. “Right. Turns out she was just watching me because she was trying to figure out if I was Spider-Man or not.”

He closes his eyes and bites his bottom lip. He only stops when it feels like he might break skin, and when he speaks his voice comes out fragile. “I’m so stupid.” 

Quentin’s hand on his back becomes his arm around Peter’s shoulders, and he pulls him in close. “You’re not stupid,” Quentin assures. “You’re just a kid, Peter.”

“Other kids have to deal with their crush figuring out their secret superhero identity?”

Peter’s pleased, at least a little bit, when Quentin huffs out a laugh.

“Maybe not,” Quentin allows. “But, your crush not liking you back, that happens.”

“I know,” Peter says miserably. “I just...I really thought.” 

Quentin’s arm tightens around him. “I know, Peter. I’m sorry.” 

Peter turns and tucks his face against Quentin’s neck, hiding in the heat of his skin and the scent of his bodywash, his aftershave. “This is the worst vacation ever.” 

Quentin laughs again. “I’m sorry. That’s my fault.”

“Kinda,” Peter says, a weak tease. “Nah, something probably would’ve happened regardless. Usually does. That’s the superhero life.” 

Quentin doesn’t reply, so Peter just lets himself relish the feeling of being close to another person that isn’t Ned or May. It’s weird, maybe; it’s certainly unfamiliar, as he only just barely knows Quentin. Well enough to give him EDITH, but maybe not well enough to be curled up close against him, inching closer. 

“Peter,” Quentin says quietly. “Do you want something to drink?” 

Peter doesn’t even think; he just nods. He doesn’t even question it when a drink is pressed into his hand.

Peter’s vision is blurry but he doesn’t feel quite as sad as before.

Or, rather, he _knows_ he’s sad; he feels it buried deep in his heart, in the space around his lungs. He’s aware the sadness exists, but he can’t feel it quite as sharply as before, when he ran away from MJ on the bridge, or when he watched the light fade from Tony’s eyes.

Speaking of—

“I thought!” Peter says, gesturing with the little plastic cup in his hand so vigorously the liquid inside spills onto his fingers. He takes a moment to lick them clean before continuing. “I thought maybe, just _maybe_ , I could be a normal kid, you know!”

Quentin, perched on the bed with his back against the headboard. “I know, Peter,” he says evenly and kind. 

“Not a kid who, who’s in love with his mentor-father figure-hero, and instead, a kid who gets a crush on the nerdy weird girl!”

Quentin sits up but Peter barely notices. 

“I just, I miss him so _much_ and this vacation was supposed to help me move _on_. It’s been too long for me to keep feeling this way.”

“Grief doesn’t have a time constraint,” Quentin says but his voice sounds far away. Then, suddenly, he sounds so much closer. “Sometimes it never goes away, just gets easier to ignore.”

Peter turns to look up at Quentin. _That’s right_ , his brain supplies _This man lost his whole family_. “Fuck,” Peter says, feeling his cheeks flush. “I’m sorry.”

“Peter.” Quentin’s voice is delicate. “Don’t apologize, Peter. You lost someone important to you, just like I did.” 

Peter nods but he feels numb, inside and out. 

“Peter,” Quentin starts again. “How about you sit down, huh?” Without waiting for an answer, Quentin herds him to the bed, helping Peter to collapse against the plush comforter. 

“You’re, you’re wearing the glasses.” Peter blinks and tries to remember if he was wearing them when Peter first arrived. His memory is too hazy. 

“I’m getting used to EDITH,” Quentin replies easily. 

Peter accepts the answer. “You look...You look kinda like Tony with them.” Peter closes his eyes against the onslaught of memories so he misses the glint in Quentin’s eyes. 

“You think so?” 

Peter just nods. He feels tired, like this against the bed. Comfortable. Too warm, but that’s okay.

“Peter, can you sit up for me?”

Peter obeys and sways, practically running into Quentin’s waiting hands. 

“Good, good,” Quentin murmurs. “So good, aren’t you?”

Peter shrugs. 

“So humble,” Quentin says and Peter can barely see his shining his smile through his fluttering eyes. “Peter, you loved Tony, right?”

“Yes,” Peter hisses. 

“And I look like Tony, right?” 

“Cept for the eyes.” 

Quentin’s lips quirk slightly. “I have an idea.” 

“Is it another drink? Because I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Peter’s head is starting to hurt but when Quentin cups the back of his skull, the pain almost seems to fade slightly. 

“No, not another drink. Just relax, okay?”

“I’ve never been more relaxed...except maybe the time I got my wisdom teeth— _mmphf_!” 

Peter’s mouth is open as he speaks, meaning it’s open as Quentin kisses him, slow and wet and deep. It’s his first kiss and he feels spectacularly out of his depth; he doesn’t know how to breathe when Quentin’s tongue slips into his mouth and slides against his own. He feels light headed and drunk, _fuck he’s drunk_ , he thinks before thoughts of _oh god, Quentin, oh oh oh_ fill his head. 

“That’s it,” Quentin murmurs. His hands are hot and calloused on Peter’s skin, which doesn’t make sense because he works with illusions but it feels too good for Peter to think about too hard. One hand is knotted in Peter’s hair and the other is on his hip, pushing up under his hoodie and t-shirt. “So good for me, Peter, just like you wanted to be good for Tony, right?”

A broken noise falls from Peter’s lips and into Quentin’s mouth. 

“It’s gonna be okay, Peter. I’m going to take care of you.” Quentin’s voice is so sure, so smooth.

Peter believes him and lets all tension seep from his body. 

Quentin breaks the kiss and smirks against his cheek. From there, everything moves very fast: Quentin helps Peter get his head on the pillows, and helps him undress, and helps him spread his legs without preamble. Quentin grabs lube from somewhere but Peter is too dazed to see. Even if his thoughts are starting to clear, no longer bogged down with alcohol, the pain that takes its place is almost more overwhelming. 

He ignores it in favor of clutching at Quentin, sweat-slick hands scrambling for purchase on the older man’s skin. His nails catch and rake thin red lines down Quentin’s skin, and Quentin’s grin in response is practically feral, toothy and wide. He still hasn’t taken the glasses off. 

In the back of his mind, Peter thinks he might’ve heard something like _“EDITH, start recording please,”_ but he can’t be sure. 

Doesn’t matter, because Quentin’s fingers are skilled and thick inside him and Peter doesn’t even remember the pain, the stretch that he knows must’ve happened. Quentin is watching him, eyes wide and blue behind the lenses of the glasses. His mouth is open and his gasps are soft, disbelieving, and it makes Peter feel hot all over. 

“Quentin,” he whines as three fingers twist and crook inside him. “I, I’m, it’s—?”

“I know, Peter,” Quentin says in the same exact tone he’s used all night. “I’m here, I got you. You’re almost ready for me.”

Peter thrashes for a moment, squirms, knows if he tried hard enough, he could get Quentin off him.

A hand presses against his chest and holds him down gently, and Peter stops squirming almost immediately. His body jerks and startles with a few last aftershocks of adrenaline before he settles. 

“Good boy, Peter,” Quentin growls. 

Peter hiccups around a moan and as his eyes slide shut, tears slip down his cheeks. 

Minutes or maybe hours or even eons later, Quentin’s fingers are slipping from Peter’s hole and being replaced with something thicker and hotter. He doesn’t protest as Quentin starts to push in, one hand still on Peter’s chest and the other thumbing gently over his hip. 

“God, Peter,” Quentin moans.

Peter throws his arms around Quentin’s shoulders as soon as the other man has sunk fully inside and is close enough for Peter to cling to. “Quen—Quentin,” he gasps. 

“So tight.” Quentin presses his forehead to Peter’s. Peter can see his reflection in the glasses, flushed deep pink, wanton. Sweaty. Debauched. All sorts of SAT terms come to mind in the worst kind of way. “So perfect, Peter.” 

“C’mon, Quentin,” Peter whimpers as he digs his nails into Quentin’s back. “Do it. I wanna feel it. Make me forget.”

Quentin growls and presses a biting kiss to Peter’s lips. His thrusts start slow, all the way out and all the way in, pushing so deep inside Peter can feel it in his throat. Steadily, Quentin speeds up, almost to the point of pain. He’s ruthless, even as he’s murmuring all sorts of sweet, filthy things into Peter’s skin.

He can barely make sense of the thoughts in his own head, let alone the words Quentin is saying. He simply clings to the other man, arms over his shoulders and legs wrapped tight around his waist, and focuses on the edge of hurt that joins the undeniable pleasure rocketing up his spine. 

When Quentin wraps a hand around Peter’s cock, all the pleasure comes rushing like a freight train toward him. His orgasm is sudden and heavy; it hits him almost too hard and punches the air from his lungs. 

He gasps and his back arches into a tight bow; Quentin is laughing into his ear quietly and stroking his cock until he’s writhing with the aftershocks and over sensitivity. Quentin keeps stroking him until a second orgasm is rushing through him and puddling onto his already come-splattered stomach.

Peter’s still trying to catch his breath when Quentin shoves inside one last time and groans, low and sweet in his ear. The sensation of Quentin’s cock pulsing, filling him up and making him wet, is new and strange and Peter shudders. Quentin thrusts gently and rhythmically until Peter is wincing from _too much_ and he’s pulling out. 

Quentin kisses the ball of Peter’s shoulder before biting down, hard. “You were perfect, Peter.” 

Peter smiles faintly. The alcohol is still buzzing dimly at his thoughts but his headache is subsiding slightly, now just a dull thudding behind his eyelids. His whole body is sore with _sex_ and the thought is as frightening as it is thrilling. 

“You gonna stay?” Quentin asks as he finally drags the glasses off his face, folding them and setting them on the bedside table. 

“I don’t know,” Peter says. He feels filthy, down to his core. 

Quentin grins at him. “C’mon, the shower here is pretty nice.” 

Peter watches as Quentin slips off the bed and motions for him to follow. Peter, ignoring the sensation of come and lube between his thighs, obeys. As he passes his jeans, he catches the sound of his phone buzzing. For a moment, Peter considers digging out his phone and checking whatever message or call it is. 

By the bathroom door, Quentin clears his throat. 

Peter turns and follows him into the bathroom.

**New message from MJ  
** _Peter we need to talk_

**New message from MJ  
** _WATCH THIS VIDEO, NOW!_

**New message from Ned  
** _dude, where r u???_

**New message from MJ  
** _I’m sorry, alright? But this is serious. Call me, Parker._

**New message from Ned  
** _seriously dude_

**New message from MJ  
** _Something isn’t right with Mysterio_


End file.
